Dark Angel (Casteel Series #2)

by V. C. Andrews

  I got in my rented car and drove through town.

  It was ten-thirty at night. All business but the pharmacy counter in Stonewall's closed after ten in the evening.

  No sooner had I hit the outskirts of Winnerrow and begun to climb the spiraling highway, than my car began coughing and sputtering and then died. Undecided as to what to do now, I got out and opened the hood. Who was I fooling? I knew nothing about cars.

  I stared around at familiar territory that had taken on nightmarish proportions. I should walk back to the hotel and go to bed, I told myself, and forget about Grandpa and the money. Tom would never accept help from me: Grandpa didn't need me, not really. All over I was trembling.

  I tried to start the car again and again, to no avail. The wind picked up and brought with it the scent of rain soon to fall. And this was going to be no ordinary summer storm. This storm had wild fierce winds, the kind that brought hail, then a sluice of water. Stronger and stronger the wind blew into my face. I had no choice but to sit in my car and hope that someone would drive by and stop to help me, My body ached all over, and I began to wonder if I hadn't caught a bit of Troy's illness.

  I must have sat there for a half hour before a car appeared, unexpectedly slowed, and the driver pulled over to the side and got out of his car. As I rolled down the window, I was shocked to recognize the familiar figure. "What are you doing out here alone at midnight?" Logan Stonewall asked.

  I tried to explain what had happened as he regarded me suspiciously. "C'mon, drive you up there," he finally said, his eyes hard and commanding as he led me to his car. Feeling an absolute fool, I sat on the front seat beside him, and didn't know what to say.

  "I was just going to check on your grandpa myself," he said in way of explanation the minute he gunned his motor and shot forward.

  "He's not your responsibility!" I cried out like a child, my voice gone strange and thick.

  "I'd do the same thing for anyone all alone up there at his age."

  Silence thicker than fog came between Logan and me. The trees along the roadside were lashed unmercifully by the winds, before the hail pelted down and Logan was forced to the side of the highway to wait until the worst was over. That took about ten minutes, and during that time neither of us spoke.

  Once more Logan drove his car toward a

  familiar dirt road that would branch out any second.

  Fastening my eyes on the road ahead, I tried to control my trembling.

  Long ago I had considered Winnerrow's one and only hotel superbly grand; now I knew it was seedy. But still it was far better than the shack he was driving me to! I felt like crying. I wanted a comfortable bed, clean sheets and nice blankets, and heat to drive this sudden chill from my bones. And now I'd have only the cabin with its outhouse, and the inadequate heat of Ole Smokey. I felt a tragic sense of loss as civilization was left behind in Winnerrow.

  Instead of crying, I lit into Logan.

  "And so you play the good Samaritan to my grandfather, do you? I suppose you just need someone in your life you can pity and demonstrate your generosity to."

  He flicked me another of his scornful glances, and I looked at him long enough to see there wasn't a spark of the love that was once in his eyes. It hurt to know that my best friend had turned into a worst enemy, the kind of enemy who would kill me with hard glances and cruel words; the knives he'd save for others to throw.

  I pressed back hard against the seat and slid as far from him as possible, vowing to myself not to look at him again, though in the dark, I couldn't see him very well anyway. Something was going wrong with my vision. Unreality had me squeezed in a tight fist.

  That ache in my bones had spread to my chest, behind my eyes, and my face burned as well as hurt. Moving became more difficult.

  "I drive your grandfather to Winnerrow when he wants to go," Logan said stiffly, flicking me a glance. "He comes up often from Georgia and Florida to check on his cabin."

  "He said Skeeter Burl would drive him home . .

  ."

  "Skeeter Burl did drive him a few times to and from church, but he was killed in a hunting accident about two months ago."

  Why would Grandpa tell me a lie? Unless he'd lost touch with reality and had forgotten. And of course, Grandpa had forgotten reality the day his Annie died .

  Logan fell into another prolonged silence, as did I. The world had lost a mean man when Skeeter Burl departed, even if he had favored Grandpa with a ride or two.

  Using all the shortcuts it was seven miles from Winnerrow to our cabin. This road made it three times that distance. My fuzzy mind tried to sort out clues.

  "Why aren't you in Boston? Doesn't your school start in late August?"

  "Why aren't you?"

  "I'm planning to fly back to Boston tomorrow afternoon . . ." I said vaguely.

  "If the rain stops," he said flatly.

  The rain came down in torrents. I'd never seen such rain except in early spring. This was the kind of strong driving rain that turned small creeks and springs into tiger rivers that tore down bridges and uprooted trees, and flooded the banks. Sometimes in the Willies it had rained for a week, and more, and when it was over, lakes of water had kept us from going anywhere, even to school.

  And Troy was expecting me to return late tomorrow. I'd have to call him as soon as I got back to Winnerrow. Another few miles passed. "How are your parents?" I asked.

  "Fine," he answered shortly, discouraging me from asking more.

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  At this point he turned off the main highway, and now the road turned into hardly more than a dirt path full of deep ruts flooded with water. The rain still sluiced down, slashing at the windshield, at the windows on my side. Logan switched off the wipers, and leaned forward to peer ahead. I'd never seen Logan look so hard before, so unaccommodating. Then he moved suddenly, seizing hold of my left hand, and for seconds he stared at the huge diamond on my ring finger. "I see," he said, dropping my hand as if he never wanted to touch me again.

  I clamped my lips together, sealed my mind, and tried to think of something but the way Our Jane and Keith had rejected me. That horrible sense of loss clung to me like old rotting moss.

  Paying strict attention to the road, Logan said nothing more, and it was with relief that he turned into the space that represented the yard of the mountain cabin I'd not expected to see again.

  This time I came to the cabin where I'd been born, with Boston perspective, my sensibilities trained now to appreciate beauty and fine construction; my taste cultivated with an eye for the best that life had to offer. So I sat, ready to feel appalled and disgusted; ready to wonder how anyone could want to go back . .

  back to that! I could see it all in my mind's eye, the listing, ramshackled shack with the sagging front porch, the old wood gone silvery and streaked with stains from the tin roof. The dirt yard grown over with weeds and brambles, though the puddles of rainwater would conceal the worst, and I wouldn't look toward the outhouse and worry about how Grandpa managed to shuffle himself back and forth. I had to see the Reverend in the morning. Then I had to return to Troy.

  Logan was parking the car, and I had to look, had to face up to the horror of Grandpa out here, alone in the rain, half-protected by a leaky roof, with the ghost of his wife on a night when the wind was blowing, and that always made the cabin so drafty.

  I sat staring, barely giving credence to what I saw. The listing cabin was gone!

  In its place was a strong-looking, well-made log cabin, the kind city men called "hunting lodges."

  Surprise almost had me paralyzed. "How?" I asked. "Who?"

  Logan gripped the wheel hard, as if to keep from shaking sense into me. Nor did he look my way as we sat on in the parked car. And inside the cabin lights shone. Electricity! I was trapped in disbelief, feeling this was a dream.

  "From the way I've heard it, your grandpa was unhappy living in Georgia where it is flat and stifling hot," explained Logan, "and he didn't know an
yone there. He missed the hills. He missed Winnerrow. And from what Tom wrote me, you sent him hundreds of dollars last October to pay for a few of his 'critters'

  and that got him going. He wanted to go back to where he could see his Annie. And he had that money you mailed him, so he came back. Tom has contributed his share of money, too, he works night and day.

  The old cabin was torn down, and this one was put up.

  It didn't take but twelve weeks, and still it is a very nice cabin inside. Don't you want to go in and see? Or are you planning to leave the old man alone with the ghost who shares his home?"

  How could I tell Logan it wouldn't make any difference if I stayed or went, Grandpa would still live with his beloved ghost, no matter what. But I couldn't say it. Instead I stared at the two-story cabin. Even from the outside I could tell it was nice inside. There were two sets of triple windows across the front that had to allow lots of sunshine to flood inside. I remembered the two small rooms that had always been dim and smoky, with never enough light or fresh air. What a difference six windows could make!

  And I did want to see the inside, of course I did.

  But I was feeling peculiar, quivering one second from chills, flushed and hot the next. My joints began to ache more severely; even my stomach felt rebellious.

  I opened the passenger door of the car and said,

  "I can walk back to town, Logan, tomorrow morning.

  You don't have to wait for me."

  I slammed the door, uncomfortable with old times now that I'd adjusted to new times, and running against the cold rain, I entered the log cabin. To my astonishment the cabin, which had seemed small on the outside, had a large living room where Grandpa was on his hands and knees, busy fiddling with the logs he hoped to burn in the stone fireplace that reached the ceiling and spread across one entire side of the room. There were fine, heavy brass andirons, a handsome firescreen, and a heavy grate, and even before a match was lit, the house was already warm.

  Pulled close to the hearth, situated on a large braided rug such as Granny had once made from old nylon stockings given to her by the church bazaar ladies, were the two old rockers that Granny and Grandpa had used on the porch of the old cabin. And in the winter they had been brought inside. They were the only articles of furniture left from the original cabin.

  Two chairs that looked old, faded, worn, and yet they touched me as none of the new furniture did.

  "Annie . . . didn't I tell ya she were here?" said Grandpa excitedly, reaching to lay his gnarled hand on the arm of the best rocker where his wife used to sit. "She's come t'stay, Annie. Our Heaven girl, come t'take kerr of us in our time of need."

  Oh, dear God, I couldn't stay!

  Troy was waiting for me!

  Logan had followed me into the house and watched me from the door. I tried to pull myself together and fight whatever it was that was making me feel ill. I rambled around the four downstairs rooms that were paneled with wood. In the kitchen I gazed with wonder on the bright modern electric appliances. There was a double stainless steel sink, and beside it a dishwasher! Folding doors revealed a laundry room with a washer and dryer! A large double-door refrigerator! More cabinets than even Kitty'd had in her kitchen. Country curtains at the windows, blue gingham with a row of yellow daisies to trim the hem, and white cotton balls fringed the edges. A round table was spread with a matching gingham tablecloth. The tile on the floor was bright blue, the cushions tied to the chairs, sunny yellow. I'd never seen such a pretty and homey-looking kitchen.

  Why, it was the kind e kitchen I used to dream about when I was a child. Tears stung my eyes as I reached to caress the smooth wood of the cabinets, when once we'd had only one open shelf on which to stack our pitifully few dishes. And nails had supported our few pots and pans. I was sobbing openly now, seeing all the conveniences that Sarah and Granny would have enjoyed, to say nothing of the rest of us. And like the hillbilly kid I used to be, I turned on the hot and cold water spigots and held my hand under . . instant water here in the mountains? I flipped on electric switches. I shook my head. A dream, that was all. Another dream.

  Wandering onward, awed, I found a small

  dinette with a wide bay window that would overlook in daytime a spectacular view of the valley but for the trees. My dream to cut down some of the trees so the city lights of Winnerrow would sparkle the night like fireflies in the summers. I could see nothing but rain on this night.

  A small hallway beyond the dinette led to a downstairs bath and an adjoining bedroom that had to be Grandpa's. I saw his "critters" placed neatly on open shelves with mirrors behind them, and small hidden lights dramatized the array of tiny animals and freakish but clever mountain folk.

  On Grandpa's big brass bed (not the old one) was one of Granny's best handmade quilts. There was a night table with a lamp, two lounge chairs, a bureau, a chest. I turned in circles, wandered back to the kitchen, and in the center of the floor I began to really wail.

  "Why are you crying?" asked Logan from behind me, his voice soft and strange, "I thought you might like it now. Or have you grown so used to huge mansions that a cozy cabin in the mountains seems too poor?"

  "It's pretty, and I do like it," I said, trying to hold back my tears.

  "Please stop crying," he said in a hoarse voice.

  "You haven't seen it all. There are rooms upstairs.

  Save a few tears for those." And catching hold of my elbow, he drew me forward even as I searched in my handbag for tissues. I dabbed at my tears, then blew my nose. "Your grandfather has some trouble with steps . . . not that he can't climb them, he just thinks there shouldn't be any stairs in his home."

  Someone had thought of everything. But I was tired, sick feeling, needing to lie down, and I tried to pull away. Logan grew forceful, almost shoving me up the stairs. "Isn't this the kind of cabin you always wished for when you were a kid growing up and feeling cheated of everything nice? Well, here it is, so look! And if it comes too late for you to appreciate all the trouble it took to make it this way, I'm sorry . . .

  but you look around and you see it and appreciate it now, if you never see it again!"

  Two medium-sized bedrooms were up there, and a large double bath.

  Logan leaned against the closet door. "From what Tom has written me, your father has put money in this place, too. Perhaps one day your pa is planning on bringing his family here."

  Something deep in his voice made me turn to meet his eyes, and this time I really saw him. He wore casual clothes as if he didn't go to church anymore on Sundays. Apparently he hadn't shaved today, and the stubble there made him seem different, older, less handsome and perfect.

  "I'm ready to go now." I headed for the stairs.

  "It's a very nice house, and I'm glad Grandpa has a nice place to stay, with plenty of food in the pantry."

  He didn't reply this time, only followed me downstairs where I said goodbye to Grandpa and kissed his gaunt, pale cheek.

  "Good night, Grandpa, good night, Granny. I'll be coming back to see you again tomorrow. After I've taken care of a few things."

  Grandpa nodded absently as his eyes went stark and his fingers began to work nervously at the fringe of the shawl he'd thrown about his shoulders.

  Granny's shawl!

  "Been good t'see ya, chile Heaven, real good t'see ya."

  He wasn't going to plead. "You take care, Grandpa, you hear?" I said in the country way that came readily back. "Is there anything you need, or anything I can bring you from town?"

  "Got everythin' now," Grandpa mumbled, looking around with his rheumy eyes. "Lady comes from town an' fixes our meals. Every day she does that. Annie says that's nice of her, but Annie could cook fer us if she could see betta."

  I touched the arm of Granny's chair, worn slick and shiny from the clutch of her hands. Leaning, I pretended to kiss her cheek, and that made Grandpa's eyes shine.

  On the porch I stumbled twice. The wind and rain seemed an animal, wild to destroy. The cold was s
o stunning it stole my breath, and the rain blinded me. Logan grabbed quickly to keep me from falling down the stairs.

  He shouted something in my ears. The wind howled louder than his voice. On the steps I sagged, my knees giving way. When Logan had me in his arms, carrying me back to the cabin.

  Eighteen

  Deliver unto Me

  .

  TIME PLAYED TRICKS ON ME. I SAW AN

  OLD WOMAN who reminded me of Granny. She bathed me, and fed me, and all the time she talked about how lucky it was that her home was only a skip and a jump away, now that the bridges were down and a doctor couldn't come from the village. I saw Logan time and time again, when I woke up in the daylight, when I woke up in the darkness, always he was there.

  In my delirium I saw Troy's face as he repeatedly called my name. "Come back, come back," he kept saying. "Save me, save me, save me."

  And the torrential rains kept pouring down, down, making me think even when my eyes were open and I was more or less rational, that I was caught somewhere in purgatory, not heaven, but almost hell.

  Then came that stark day when my mind wasn't smeared with fever, and the room around me came into focus, and I was stunned to be where I was. I lay on a big bed in the upstairs bedroom of that rebuilt mountain shack, weak and wan, realizing I had just pulled through the worst illness of my life. I had been luckier health-wise than Our Jane; seldom had anything forced me to spend even one day in bed.

  To lie helpless and too weak even to lift my hand or turn my head was a totally unnerving experience. So unnerving I closed my eyes and fell into sleep again. The next time I awakened in the night, hazily to see Logan hovering above me. He needed a shave; he looked tired and worried, and more than a little harassed. Later on when the sun was up, I awakened to find him washing my face, and humiliated, I tried to shove his ministering hands away.

  "No," I tried to whisper, but I broke out into paroxysms of coughs that stole even my whispers.